CHAPTER 3

THE SECRET WAR IN LAOS

SUMMER 1965

DURING HIS TIME AT NKP, Jerry flew in and out of Laos with increasing frequency as the importance of this country lodged between Thailand and Vietnam became more evident. CIA operatives established clandestine military bases, small at first, where Laotian forces friendly to US interests could hook up with rescue missions, covert military operations, and any endeavors connected to the war effort. These bases came to be called Lima Sites with a simple numerical designation.

One of the most important Lima Sites was LS98, also known as LS20A or Long Tieng. The CIA established the base in 1962 primarily as headquarters for Vang Pao, a two-star general in the Royal Lao Army and commander of the Hmong guerrilla forces. He was already well on his way to becoming a legend in that part of the world for his bravery and commitment to fighting Communist forces intent on taking over Laos. His desire to see the forces of North Vietnam defeated made him a natural ally for the United States.

Lima Site 98 expanded quickly and by the late sixties contained a long runway, which some called the busiest airport in the world. Forty thousand inhabitants made it the second largest city in Laos, although it appeared on no maps, giving rise to another label, the “most secret place on earth.” It was located 3,100 feet above sea level, surrounded by mountains with a steep karst, or large limestone outcropping, at one end of the runway. These geographical features provided natural defenses in an already remote area.

On Jerry’s initial trip into Lima Site 98, he was ordered to fly through Udorn Royal Thai Air Force Base first in order to pick up someone who needed a lift to the post in Laos. Shortly after Jerry set down his helicopter at Udorn, a stocky American man strode across the runway, a carbine loosely slung across his shoulder and a dog-eared Ian Fleming paperback sticking out of the pocket of his blue jeans. He quickly jumped into Jerry’s helicopter and said, “Thanks for the lift. So this is your first time to LS98?” His gravelly voice was memorable.

“Yes, it is. I’ve heard about the karst at the end of the runway. And that you can get a lot of weather there,” Jerry said. Before leaving NKP, he had been told only that he was picking up an American government worker who had business at Lima Site 98. The new passenger stretched out his large hand toward Jerry’s extended handshake and said, “You probably won’t be able to pronounce my last name either —most people just call me Tony Poe. If you need me, I can help out navigating visually.”

“That’d be fine,” said Jerry. “I’ve had reports of the topographical features that make takeoff and landing somewhat exciting, even under optimum conditions.”

But as they flew into Laos, the weather turned nasty. Cloud cover completely enveloped the region below them for miles. Jerry, on dead reckoning, radioed the base.

“This is Pedro 1 calling Lima Site 98. We are above the overcast, inbound for Lima 98.”

Almost immediately, an Air America pilot called back. “Not a problem. . . . I’ll come up to get you and bring you down.”

In just a few minutes, Jerry saw an H-34 helicopter appear as if by magic on top of the clouds, having emerged not far from where he was flying. The pilot had come up through a “sucker hole,” an opening in the overcast that, if a flyer is willing to gamble, can be used to get through the clouds to the ground. The problem is that these openings can close up just as soon as they open —hence the name “sucker hole.”

Before he could analyze the situation further, the H-34 ducked back into the “hole.” Immediately, Jerry joined the H-34 and followed him down into the thick clouds. Continually circling, the two helicopters finally came out from the overcast not far from the looming karst. The runway was just below them. Jerry hovered for a second and lightly landed.

“Welcome to Lima 98,” said Tony Poe, grinning. He gave Jerry a hearty slap on the back and bounced out of the helicopter.

In the succeeding days, Jerry found colorful people matched the exotic sights and landscape of this remote base. And one of the most interesting turned out to be the passenger to whom he had given a ride.

Tony Poe, short for Poshepny, was a CIA operative working undercover in Southeast Asia, especially Laos, to organize and lead guerrilla forces fighting against the Communists. His reputation was growing by the week —some said he often filled large manila envelopes with actual ears cut off enemy combatants when authorities in Washington questioned his numerical assessments of defeated soldiers. He lived on a large farm just on the outskirts of LS98 and had married a woman some said was a Laotian princess.

Jerry saw him often when he flew into the remote area, and Tony Poe, grateful for rides when he needed them, kept Jerry and his crews supplied with bushels of roasting ears he himself had grown on his farm. Tony would fill several large baskets and have his children deliver them to the helicopter pilot. On each successive trip into the site, Jerry and his crews ate fresh corn for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, dipping the hot cobs down into gallon buckets of butter labeled USDA.

On days when he wasn’t flying missions, Jerry enjoyed spending time walking through a large area of open-air market stalls selling everything from Singha beer to opium. People dressed in a variety of gear wandered through the maze of tables. Tribal soldiers in military garb, Hmong fighters in more traditional uniforms, Thai mercenaries in camouflage fatigues, and CIA operatives dressed in jeans and T-shirts all milled about among native Laotians who had come from surrounding villages to sell their wares.

One morning when he was there with his crew chief, gunshots rang out, always cause for alarm in a war zone. “Get behind this table!” Jerry yelled at his crewmate. They crouched down, not knowing what might happen next until they learned a villager had sold a water buffalo that was on the hoof. The villager shot it and immediately began butchering the enormous animal on the spot. As Jerry carefully rounded the corner of one of the stalls, he saw a Laotian who had just bought an entire hindquarter scurrying off with his fresh meat thrown over his shoulders, buffalo leg and all.

The reality was that the site was more Wild West than military base. Contract pilots flew a variety of planes in and out of the site, the steep karst at one end of the runway testing the skills of even the most daring. One pilot enjoyed taking off with his window down, beating on the side of the airplane with his cowboy hat as if urging it up and over the high limestone outcropping like a bucking bronco. As a Texas son with a love for Western US history who had spent many Sunday afternoons with friends trying to ride anything that could buck in his family’s corral, Jerry found the sights and sounds of Long Tieng strangely familiar, if not exhilarating.

It wasn’t long before Jerry met several contract pilots who flew for Air America, the CIA-sponsored group helping to establish bases throughout Laos. On one of his trips there, weather kept him from continuing on to his final destination of LS36 to assist in establishing an HH-43 operation at that site. He decided to ask one of the Air America pilots if he could go along on a supply delivery trip into the remote mountainous areas.

“Sure,” said the pilot, “great to have you.” So Jerry climbed into the H-34, which was ready to take off.

After they were airborne, Jerry realized the entire helicopter was heavily loaded with all sorts of supplies for the remote drops. There was also one young Filipino riding in the back. As they flew along, the pilot explained the procedure.

“We pack the chopper with as much as we can get into it. Because the site is at a high altitude, we can’t do a hover landing.”

Jerry still wasn’t exactly sure how they were going to accomplish the delivery, but it became clear after they reached the first mountain site. Once the pilot arrived at the target area, he made slow passes back and forth above the drop zone. The Filipino literally began kicking the durable supplies out the door of the helicopter. Included in the supplies were sacks of rice, double bagged, since impact often broke open the inner bags.

This continued until the chopper’s weight was reduced enough to execute a hover landing. Finally, the Air America pilot set down, and Jerry helped the two men unload the remaining supplies.

It turned out the pilot was supplying a Laotian family known as a “road-watch team.” These scouts for the CIA kept track of who was coming up and down the trails and alerted them when any troop movement or matériel was spotted.

The weather had been overcast with very low, thick clouds for several days but finally lifted, and Jerry and his crew were able to continue on to the extremely high Lima site known as LS36. Once they landed, a special forces officer invited all of the HH-43 crews for lunch.

“Let’s go over to the mess hall and see if there’s anything we can find to eat,” he suggested to the helicopter pilot.

“Sounds great to me,” said Jerry.

The special forces officer led them to a large wooden hooch with open sides. Here, several long-planked tables were located in the shady interior, and on top of one Jerry saw a huge black mound in the middle. Coming in from the bright sunlight, he couldn’t quite make out what it was, but as he approached it, he realized the entire surface was moving.

When Jerry reached the table, suddenly the mound turned white as thousands of flies flew away with a distinct buzzing sound. Underneath, to his disbelief, were several pounds of cooked rice that had been dumped into the center of the table for serving. When someone wanted something to eat, he just went over and carved out his portion. Somehow kickers and black rice seemed to fit in with everything else Jerry was learning about this remote corner of the world.

Initially, all American planes and soldiers traveling in and out of these Lima sites bore no identifying insignias or markings on either their clothing or the planes. Jerry and his crew, along with one other rescue unit from NKP, were the very first to fly into Lima Site 98 with United States Air Force markings on their equipment and uniforms. General Vang Pao, elated to have these significant symbols of alliance with the United States clearly visible in his headquarters, wasted no time in planning an elaborate celebration in honor of the US airmen.

Vang Pao, or VP as some people called him, commanded the Hmong guerrilla forces, known for their fierce fighting and loyalty to the general. After the war, Vang Pao settled in the United States, a hero to thousands of Asians who sought refuge here after the war, especially to the Laotians living mainly in the northwest. For them, Vang Pao was larger than life, a walking legend in their midst whom they revered and continued to honor with their allegiance.

On Jerry’s first trip to Lima 98, the general sent his bodyguard, an imposing-looking soldier whose face had been badly disfigured by a bear, to inform Tony Poe of the invitation, who in turn informed Jerry and the other American crews. Escorted to a more secluded area of the camp, the airmen reached a large pavilion shaded by canvases stretched above a wooden floor with open sides and rails around its edges. The platform sat several feet above the ground. As Jerry’s crew and one other arrived, the general motioned for the officers to be seated cross-legged on the floor in a semicircle, with enlisted men standing behind.

Tables laden with all sorts of foods and fruit lined one side of the pavilion. Very shortly afterward, someone switched on a power generator, and three Laotian young men cranked up electric guitars with several speakers booming. About twenty young girls dressed in traditional Laotian apparel began swinging to the music, performing native dances and also their interpretation of Western steps.

After dining and entertainment, the ceremony took a more serious turn. Signaling for quiet, General Vang Pao motioned everyone to be seated. He approached Jerry and the other Americans with instructions. “Hold out hands,” he said, motioning for them to place their palms up. After a few words of gratitude for their alliance, spoken in broken English, he tied a white string around Jerry’s left arm, a Laotian symbol of friendship and blessing. Then the general placed a small boiled egg in one hand and a shot glass filled to the brim with Johnnie Walker scotch in the other.

As a general rule, Jerry refrained from drinking any kind of alcohol. Two primary reasons motivated this abstinence. First, his position as a deacon in the Baptist church mandated a “no drinking” policy. But the second reason probably held a tighter grip on him than conservative Christian beliefs did: his father customarily drenched rock candy with alcohol whenever the children had sore throats growing up, and the smell, from that point forward, was obnoxious to Jerry: it always reminded him of being sick.

The situation posed a distinct dilemma. In Eastern cultures, it is considered extremely impolite to refuse to eat and drink what a host offers. And in this case, the delight of the general and other Laotian dignitaries for their American allies added to the awkwardness of declining. Not wanting to offend his gracious host, he ate the egg and gulped down the scotch. Then the next dignitary stepped up, tied a string around his wrist, placed a cookie in one hand, and filled the shot glass in the other . . . again to the brim. Jerry obliged once more.

After another dignitary came forward, the pilot noticed they were switching from scotch to a drink called Lao Lao, a distilled fiery brew made from sticky rice, the Laotian version of white lightning. The third dignitary in line tied another string of friendship around his wrist, placed a piece of food in one hand, and filled his shot glass to the brim with Lao Lao. The pilot ate and drank. This time, however, the alcohol nearly took his breath away. Many of the other Americans either snorted or wheezed as they swigged down the Asian moonshine.

When Jerry caught his breath, he looked up to see at least eighteen more officials standing in line with their string, their hors d’oeuvres, and their lethal liquid. He realized he was in trouble. If he rejected their offerings, it would be viewed as an insult to the Laotians’ generous hospitality. But to continue downing these full shots of straight, potent alcohol surely would produce equally dire results.

Faced with a mounting dilemma and trying to find a graceful way out, he looked down between his crossed legs, where a small knothole in the wooden floor about the size of a quarter caught his eye. He suddenly remembered a line from the Lord’s Prayer and gave a quick word of thanks for being led away from temptation. He raised the next shot glass to his lips, then quickly lowered it discreetly between his legs, pouring the contents through the hole onto the ground below.

The others, however, must not have found any knotholes. At the end of the evening, most weaved their way off the platform, some struggling more than others. One airman had to be half carried, half dragged back to his sleeping quarters. But none of them would ever forget the friendship ceremony of the strings. And Jerry kept the dozens of white threads representing blessings from General Vang Pao and the other Laotian officials tied around his left arm.

The charismatic two-star general was not the only Royal Lao Armed Forces leader Jerry worked with while in Southeast Asia. Late one afternoon, an urgent message came in from Udorn requesting emergency assistance in Laos. Royal Lao regulars had been ambushed by Pathet Lao forces, resulting in a bloody skirmish that left many wounded. Jerry flew to a Laotian base, where he was met by the commander of the Laotian Air Force.

One-star general Thao Ma explained to Jerry and his crew that several severely injured soldiers needed to be air-evacuated, but the battle had taken place in an isolated area with extremely rough terrain. A Laotian navigator, who ironically had just returned to Laos after being trained in Waco, Texas, told the American pilot he thought he could direct him to the location.

They headed out with the navigator seated next to Jerry, flying deeper and deeper into a remote section of jungle thick with enemy troops. After arriving in the vicinity where they thought the emergency call had come from, they spotted soldiers signaling from the ground. When Jerry landed the helicopter, he discovered the fighters had triaged the wounded, separating the men they thought had the best chance of surviving. The other unharmed soldiers planned to evacuate the area as soon as the helicopter took off, leaving to certain death those left behind.

The area seemed eerily quiet, almost surreal. As Jerry walked through the men on the ground, the only sounds were the muffled moans of men in great pain and suffering. He made a quick decision —he wouldn’t leave any of them. He instructed his crew to cover the back of the helicopter with a large poncho, and they motioned for the Laotians to begin loading all who were injured. In order to get everybody on the small floor space, they had to stack all thirteen or fourteen men like cordwood. Most were bleeding profusely; some were already unconscious. They moved as rapidly as possible, since enemy forces might break through at any moment.

Once airborne again, Jerry flew directly back to the airfield in Savannakhet, Laos, where several ambulances waited to carry the wounded to a nearby hospital fully equipped for surgery and whatever other medical services might be required. After the Laotian soldiers were unloaded, he returned to his helicopter and stopped, staring at the poncho on the floor. Two of his men came up behind and looked over his shoulder. Without saying a word, he motioned his crew inside the chopper. Together the three men lifted the poncho up at its corners —huge puddles of still-warm blood flowed to the ground outside. It was the captain’s first real look at what ground war was all about.

Jerry’s tour of duty was supposed to be temporary —just 120 days. He had volunteered knowing that an assignment to Southeast Asia would come regardless. But at the end of four months, Jerry’s tour was extended another sixty days as the military continued to solidify personnel and aircraft in Thailand. It was a disappointment but not entirely unexpected.

Jerry’s wife, Terry, remained in Louisiana with their children. They were living in the same home close to England AFB, continuing with all their school and church activities. Jerry called Terry to give her the news of the extension. The overseas telephone connection was poor, with static and delays, so they talked only briefly. It was the last they would hear the sound of each other’s voices for seven and a half years. Just twenty days before his scheduled return home, the event that would forever alter his life —and that of his family —occurred without any premonition at all.